“Used to be private bar—once,” muttered the man, with an eager, thirsty look in his bleared and bloodshot eyes.
“Thank ye, Mr Sam, sir, and good luck to yer. My word, what a beauty she have growed, sir! Lady T.’s nothing to her.”
“Right you are, Dinny,” said the trainer, smiling proudly, as his child came tripping down the staircase as light, flowery, and iridescent in colours as a clever, fashionable modiste and milliner could make her, regardless of expense, after being ordered to produce something “spiff” for the races. “She’ll take the shine out of some of ’em.”
“Shine, sir!” cried the tout, in his genuine admiration of the pretty, rosy-faced, rustic little beauty. “Why, she’ll put ’em out like a silver ’stinguisher. Thank ye, Mr Sam, sir,” he continued, as in his satisfaction at the praise and the pleasure felt over an anticipated grand coup, the trainer’s heart opened, and he slipped a florin into the tout’s hand. “You wouldn’t buy my tip, sir, but I’ll give it to the little gal I’ve knowed since she was as high as one of your quart pots. Good luck to you, my beauty! You lay gloves or guineas on your pretty namesake—La Sylphide’s the winner. You’re clippers, both on you, that you are. Tlat!”
The last was a smack of the lips as the tout went from the door on his way to the tap, and in anticipation of the draught that would cool his parching throat.
“Nasty old man!” cried the little bouquet of a body, exhaling scent all round, as she tripped to the trainer’s side, raised herself on tiptoe, with her delicate, rose-coloured gloves on his shoulders, and gave him a couple of rapid kisses. “There, dad, shall I do?”
“Oh, yes, you’ll do,” said the trainer, grimly; “but don’t you get putting anything on La Sylphide.”
“Not going to, daddy,” said the girl, merrily, and making three or four breakdown steps she brought a little foot down on the floor with a light pat. “I’ve put all on her that she’s going to win to-day. Now, say I look fit as a fairy.”
“Out and out. There’ll be nothing to-day as can touch yer. But—”
“Ah, you mustn’t—you shan’t!” cried the charming little thing, dashing at her father as he uttered that but in a growl. “We’ve had it out together, and made it up, and kissed, and you shan’t scold me any more.”